Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?: Chapters 7–11

She’s really out of touch, he thought as he donned his white work uniform; even if he hurried he’d be late to work and Mr. Sloat would be angry, but so what?

Mercer, he reflected, isn’t a human being; he evidently is an archetypal entity from the stars, superimposed on our culture by a cosmic template.

Mercer, he reflected, isn’t a human being; he evidently is an archetypal entity from the stars, superimposed on our culture by a cosmic template.

An electric cat: it lay in the plastic dust-proof carrying cage in the rear of the truck and panted erratically.

The cat, in its travail, groaned.

Deftly, he ran his fingers along the pseudo bony spine.

If I hadn’t failed that IQ test I wouldn’t be reduced to this ignominious task with its attendant emotional by-products.

Maybe when you deteriorate back down the ladder of evolution as I have, when you sink into the tomb world slough of being a special—well, best to abandon that line of inquiry.

Every day he declined in sagacity and vigor.

Amanda Werner and several other beautiful, elegant, conically breasted foreign ladies, from unspecified vaguely defined countries, plus a few bucolic so-called humorists, comprised Buster’s perpetual core of repeats.

“—no rock nicks on me,” Buster prattled away to Amanda Werner.

And the American and Soviet police had publicly stated that Mercerism reduced crime by making citizens more concerned about the plight of their neighbors.

They’re fighting for control of our psychic selves; the empathy box on one hand, Buster’s guffaws and off-the-cuff jibes on the other.

He held out his hand amiably.

“The owner of our firm, Mr. Hannibal Sloat—” He floundered.

What he was saying possessed an intrinsic logic which he had no means of halting; it had to grind to its own conclusion.

Milt essayed, “We can have it ready in ten days. We'll deliver it during the day while your husband is at work.”

“Owners who get to love their animals,” Sloat said somberly, “go to pieces. I’m glad we’re not usually involved with real animals. You realize that actual animal vets have to make calls like that all the time?”

“Yes, I understand,” Ackers said sulkily, as if his deep schooling in police matters had been derided.

As far as he could discern, the Rosens had already proven to be bad news.

“Hello, Officer Deckard.” Her tone seemed placating; that caught his attention. “Are you busy right now or can I talk to you?”

“We made this ourselves,” Kadalyi said, beaming like a Slavic Santa, his ruddy face inscribed with pride.

As he descended toward the ornate, expansive roof of the opera house he loudly sang a potpourri of arias, with pseudo-Italian words made up on the spot by himself; even without the Penfield mood organ at hand his spirits brightened into optimism.

As he descended toward the ornate, expansive roof of the opera house he loudly sang a potpourri of arias, with pseudo-Italian words made up on the spot by himself; even without the Penfield mood organ at hand his spirits brightened into optimism.

In a way, he realized, I’m part of the form-destroying process of entropy.

Leaning forward and peering, Rick studied Pamina in her heavy, convoluted robes, with her wimple trailing its veil about her shoulders and face.

Her immense eyes widened with childlike acceptance, as if he had revealed the cardinal mystery of creation.

The Mission Street Hall of Justice building, onto the roof of which the hovercar descended, jutted up in a series of baroque, ornamented spires; complicated and modern, the handsome structure struck Rick Deckard as attractive—except for one aspect.

“Well, you can make another call; we have a liberal policy in that regard. I can’t offer you the opportunity of calling a bondsman because your offense is unbailable, at present. When you’re arraigned, however—”

He continued to study Rick intently, his face turgid; Rick could not fathom what Garland was thinking.

“A lot of the Soviet police are that way,” Garland said, visibly nettled.

“Of course not,” Garland interjected, his face wrinkled with indignation; his words broke off, bitter and sharp.

“I’ve always said,” he continued, “that the best place for an android would be with a big police organization such as W.P.O. Ever since I first met Polokov I’ve wanted to test him, but no pretext ever arose. It never would have, either...which is one of the values such a spot would have for an enterprising android.”

He did not seem afraid of his superior, despite Garland’s palpable wrath.

This man—or android—Rick Deckard, comes to us from a phantom, hallucinatory, nonexistent police agency allegedly operating out of the old departmental headquarters on Lombard. He’s never heard of us and we’ve never heard of him—yet ostensibly we’re both working the same side of the street.

The laser beam, aimed with skill, based on years of training, bifurcated Inspector Garland’s head.

He put his laser beam away, bent, and, with curiosity, examined the body of his quondam superior.

“That he—it—was an android. And you—” Rick broke off, the conduits of his brain humming, calculating, and selecting; he altered what he had started to say. “—would detect it,” he finished.

You got me out of this place and here’s your reward; you’re everything we jointly abominate.

“Or—I’ve been impregnated with a false memory system. Maybe I only remember Garland over the whole time. But—” His face, suffused now with growing torment, continued to twist and work spasmodically.